


I'm a Werelion (not really), Hear Me Roar (or whatever they do)

by calrissian18



Series: Teen Wolf Coda [9]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Based on the Events of 4x06, Coda, Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 05:18:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2055096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calrissian18/pseuds/calrissian18
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia looked to Stiles before turning and saying rather matter-of-factly, “The dead pool, it’s a supernatural hit list.”</p><p>“Supernatural,” Parrish repeated the word.  Was that slang or something?  “In what regard?”</p><p>Stiles’ nostrils flared and he ran a hand through his hair, working himself up.  “In the regard that Scott’s a werewolf,” he threw a hand towards Lydia, “Lydia’s a banshee, Kira’s a kitsune, Malia is a werecoyote and Kate Argent is a werejaguar.”  He snorted harshly.  “I get that a few of these sound like the Frankenstein monsters of a seven-year-old’s brain but that’s what we’re working with here.”</p><p> </p><p>4.06 Coda - because Stiles said "I like you, I'm gonna keep you," and I gave up because HOW DO YOU FIGHT THAT?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm a Werelion (not really), Hear Me Roar (or whatever they do)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not _super_ on board with 'Jordan' yet. I'm getting there though... I think. But, for now, Parrish will mainly be referred to as 'Parrish.' Sorry if that irks anyone. I'm _trying_ with that name, okay, I am.
> 
> Also, I know my coda usually gets written night of to post the next morning and I've been a little lame with season four's but, to be fair, I had no idea I'd be writing coda (because I _thought_ I wasn't inspired) and didn't realize either of these last two _were_ coda until I started writing. Whoops.

Stiles fumbled out of the back seat, spilling into the driveway and lunging forward to get Lydia’s door before she could even think to reach for it.  It was less floundering than Parrish would have expected it to be.  She didn’t even glance at him, as though Stiles’ antics were commonplace, and he hovered around her as she exited, ready to catch or comfort her should she need it.  He treated her a bit like she was a fragile flower and Parrish often wondered if it was the fierce protection of a friend that drove him or the overzealousness of a smitten teenager.

Lydia Martin didn’t seem like someone who needed that much of a buffer regardless.  But, from what he understood, she had recently lost her best friend and maybe that was what Stiles was reacting to.  Anyone could see how close he was to Scott, who had been there when Allison Argent had been killed.  Maybe Stiles was trying to shield Lydia as much as he could because he hoped someone would do the same for him if the situation were reversed.  There might also be some guilt there, that he hadn’t lost as much as Lydia had that night.

Their relationship was a curious one, to say the least.

Parrish poked his head over the console, caught Stiles’ eye before he could close the door.  “Are we sure we shouldn’t be taking her to the hospital?  Her ears  _were_  bleeding,” he pointed out, rather rationally he thought.

Lydia answered before Stiles could open his mouth.  “I’ll be fine.”  She waved him off with a tight smile.

Stiles jerked his head to the side, lips rolled in as he awkwardly smiled.  “Not a lady you should argue with.”

Parrish waited as Stiles walked Lydia to her door, the two talking quietly all the way up the drive and pausing on the front step, Stiles with a look of anxious concern and Lydia with exhaustion.  Parrish wasn’t leaving until they were both safely inside or Stiles accepted a ride home.

He watched Lydia close the door behind her, Stiles lost inside his own head as he ruffled up the back of his hair and strolled back down the driveway.  He climbed into the front seat without prompting, leaned his head back and sighed.

Parrish looked around him to be sure everything was well in the Martin household and saw the light flick on upstairs.  He started the car again just as Stiles said slyly, “You like her.”

Parrish snorted, shook his head as he pulled out onto the street.  “She’s seventeen.”

“I’m not about to argue Lydia Martin is too immature for anything, so you can just,” Stiles mimed pushing something to the side, “take that argument right off the table.”

Parrish waited until they were at a stop sign to look over and raise his brows in amusement.  “I’m a  _deputy_ , it’s illegal.”

Stiles didn’t seem particularly convinced but he shrugged his shoulders after a moment, defeated.  “Not a good idea anyway.  You need the self-esteem of Scrappy-Doo and an inoculation against the word ‘no.’  And you’re still going to be coming up with detailed ten-year plans at the end of the day.”

It took a moment for Parrish to move past the fact that someone had just used  _Scrappy-Doo_  to make a point.  When he did, he pulled out his most damning piece of evidence.  “I’m not interested.”

Stiles smirked, drew out the word: “ _Li-ar_.”

He wasn’t.  Lying, that was.  He waited two blocks to start to parse all this out, Stiles’ involvement in it at least.  He tapped his first two fingers on the steering wheel when they stopped at a light.  “So, Lydia’s on this dead pool.”  He glanced over at Stiles steadily.  “Couldn’t help but notice your name doesn’t seem to show up anywhere, and yet you’re still involved in all… this.”  He lost some ground there, not knowing exactly what  _this_  consisted of but he thought the point got made regardless.

“Just every single one of my friend’s,” Stiles agreed.  He winked at Parrish, said with a touch of sarcasm, “That’s what we like to call ‘incentive.’”

Parrish’s lips curled under in a smile he was trying to hide.  “Very marine mindset,” he said, unable to keep the approval out of the dip of his chin and the robustness of his voice.  “No man left behind, that’s respectable.”

Stiles hadn’t expected a positive attitude about anything to do with him, clearly, and he looked out the window, at a loss for how to respond.  Finally, he said as though testing it out, “Jordan.”  He pulled a face.  “That was so—Are you sure that’s the name you want to go with?”

Parrish chuckled, the comment catching him off-guard.  “Sorry to disappoint.”

He pulled into Stiles’ driveway just as Stiles announced, “You should be.  It’s not as bad as Romero though.   _Carl_?”  He undid his seatbelt with a shudder.  “I wanted something exotic.”  He opened the door, clambered out and leaned back in the open frame, palms on the seal between door and roof.   He grinned cheekily.  “Call him Marcello for me.”

Romero would just _love_  that and Parrish couldn’t help but grin imagining the entire department calling him ‘Marcello.’

Stiles cleared his throat, tapped his fingers against the metal of the SUV and said quickly, “Hey, by the way, the Eichen House douchebag?  Thanks for that.”

Parrish felt himself frown.  That guy had crossed at least fifteen different lines.  Who the hell spoke to a kid like that?  And, sure, Stiles had troublemaker written all over him in permanent black ink but adults were meant to rise above, not sink down into the muck.  Not to mention, he’d insulted Parrish’s boss while trying to cut Stiles down to size and Parrish had a hard time believing the sheriff deserved that.  He said a little more sharply than he meant to, “The guy’s a prick who can’t handle his booze, he’ll get what’s coming to him.”

Stiles smirked, tipping his head.  “If there’s any justice at all, he’s being strangled by his own ego as we speak.”

“Stiles,” Parrish said firmly before Stiles could pull away from the car.  He cleared his throat, trying to think of the most delicate way to phrase this.  “I know it’s not my place to say it, but you didn’t see your dad after everything that happened with you a few months ago.”  Stiles’ expression shut down at the mention of his father.  “You have the ability to stay out of this, you should take it.”

Stiles’ jaw was tight when he said, “I’m not going to.”

Parrish sighed, let his posture go loose again.  “I didn’t expect you would but I had to make my pitch.”  He offered Stiles a weak smile.  “Just keep in mind that—your safety, it needs to be a priority.”  He jerked his chin up towards the house.  “Get inside already.”

Stiles’ mouth split slowly into a wide grin, one that showed he had no ill-will for Parrish despite the potential over-step.  He waggled his eyebrows.  “Oh yeah, it’s imperative that I get home because it’s… imperative, right?”

Parrish bit his tongue to keep from laughing, turned away to look out the window and muttered, “Shut up.”

“And they let you be a deputy.”  Stiles shook his head with faux-solemnity, clicking his tongue and humming out the disparaging: “Mmm mm mm.”

Parrish’s smile widened to a grin and broke open over a goodnatured laugh.  He nodded to Stiles and said again, “Shut up.”

Stiles let out a bark of laughter, closing the door firmly behind him, and bounded up to his house.  Parrish waited until he’d got inside to drive off.

* * *

Parrish stared at the phone in his hand.  Lydia hadn’t even hung up, there was simply nothing but dead air on the other end, like she’d dropped the phone without the clatter.  “Lydia?   _Lydia_  ?”  He didn’t get a response and he knew he probably should have broached that better but there was a part of him that  _wanted_  her to take responsibility for what had happened to Meredith.

Which was beyond small and stupid.  Lydia was a teenager, of course she hadn’t realized that her actions could have such severe consequences.  He was the one who shouldn’t have taken two kids to see a mentally disturbed girl.  This was on him and no one else.

He grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair.  He’d definitely heard Stiles in the background of that phone call and they were more likely to be at Stiles’ than Lydia’s, as that seemed to be HQ for them.

Stiles opened the door after two sharp raps from his fist with a confused, “Parrish?”

Parrish swallowed, stepping inside when Stiles stepped back.  He flicked his eyes up to the ceiling where Lydia was undoubtedly on the next floor, in Stiles’ room.  Parrish was overly familiar with the layout of the Stilinski household after he’d spent a seventy-two hour shift looking for the kid that was currently standing less than a foot away from him.  He cleared his throat.  “I wanted to check on her, after Meredith.  She seemed—”

Stiles let out a trembling little laugh and said with a quirk to his lips, “Shaken, not stirred.”

Parrish placed his hands on his duty belt, not knowing what else to do with them.  He nodded to Stiles.   “You?”

Stiles ran a shaky hand through his hair.  “Blended,” he said, a weak attempt at humor.  He shrugged, murmured, “So intent on saving everyone that I completely mowed down that girl in my path.”

Parrish perked an eyebrow.  “You don’t really believe that.”  Nevermind that he had until he’d gotten there and seen how unsettled Stiles was.  That had been a knee-jerk reaction anyway.  He knew better than that.  When people were broken enough to take so desperate a measure, it could rarely be traced back to any  _one_  cause.

Stiles huffed out a breath, shook his head.  “No.  Yes.  I don’t know.”  He sounded twisted up over it.

Parrish narrowed his eyes, said genuinely, “I think this had more to do with her being on a hit list than anything you o _r Lydia_  did.”

“Maybe,” Stiles agreed after a breathless moment, hedging, “Maybe not.”  He dredged up a puckish twist to his lips and accused, eyes glittering as they drifted up, “You’re totally here to woo.”

Parrish rolled his eyes, feeling the apples of his cheeks go warm.  “I am not wooing,” he argued weakly.

Stiles grinned.  “You are, I see the woo.”

“I’m concerned,” he said, exasperated.  “It’s concern.”

“Woo and concern are not mutually exclusive,” Stiles pointed out winningly.

Parrish shook his head, amused and knowing there was no way he was getting out of this pigeonhole now.  Stiles had, for some reason, decided he was attracted to Lydia and there didn’t seem to be any way to convince him otherwise.  Parrish said genuinely, gripping Stiles’ arm, “I’m glad you’re all right,” he shifted his gaze up, “and that you’re looking after her.”  He squeezed.  “Stay safe, Stiles.”

He took a step back and Stiles said warmly, “Doing my best, deputy,” before he shut the door behind him.

* * *

They were still finding smoking pieces of the body when Parrish caught sight of two rather familiar rubberneckers on the other side of the crime scene tape.  He walked up to them before any of the other deputies – or borrowed FBI agents – could take note of them.  “Lydia?  Stiles?” he said hurriedly, trying to rush them off before either of them could be identified.  They were gaining reputations within the department, and they weren’t good ones.  “What are you doing here?” he hissed.

Lydia jumped in, mouth pursing.  “Is it someone off the dead pool?”

Parrish looked back over his shoulder towards the car.  The driver’s side door was still thrown wide and there were claw marks over half the interior.  The registration in the glove compartment told them who they were most likely dealing with, because there was no way they were going to be able to identify her any other way now.  He turned back, face set and mouth tight.

Stiles swallowed, said roughly, “Who?”

“Angelique Fain,” he answered quickly, trying to shoo them off.  “Now you need to go.”

Stiles stood on his tiptoes, waving over Parrish’s shoulder as he said, “I need to talk to my dad actually.”  Parrish turned back around to see Stiles being waved over by the sheriff.  He brought Lydia with him as he ducked under the tape and made his way to his dad, pulling him aside and ducking their heads together.  He and Lydia listened intently to whatever the sheriff was saying.

The conversation lasted maybe five minutes and then the sheriff was sending his guys home, letting forensics and the FBI have their crack at it while he stayed behind to supervise.

Parrish offered to drive Stiles and Lydia back to the station to wait for him.  He took them both into the sheriff’s office, lowered the blinds, breathed deeply and said, “I’ve been good about this, patient.  I haven’t asked because you seemed to think there was something more imperative to deal with.  Now I’m asking.”  He looked between the two of them, watching them share an uneasy glance with each other.  “You clearly see a connection between everyone on these lists and I want to know what it is.  Considering I’m on it,” he said somewhat wryly, “I kind of think I should be as informed as possible about the situation.”

Lydia looked to Stiles before turning and saying rather matter-of-factly, “The dead pool, it’s a supernatural hit list.”

“Supernatural,” Parrish repeated the word.  Was that slang or something?  “In what regard?”

Stiles’ nostrils flared and he ran a hand through his hair, working himself up.  “In the regard that Scott’s a werewolf,” he threw a hand towards Lydia, “Lydia’s a banshee, Kira’s a kitsune, Malia is a werecoyote and Kate Argent is a werejaguar.”  He snorted harshly.  “I get that a few of these sound like the Frankenstein monsters of a seven-year-old’s brain but that’s what we’re working with here.”

Parrish looked between the two of them, disbelieving, but decided to play along.  He raised both of his eyebrows.  “And what am I supposed to be?  A werelion?  A werebear?”

“Uh.  About that last one—” Stiles started before being cut off by Lydia elbowing him in the ribs.  He rubbed at his side and groaned.  “We were hoping you could tell us actually.”

Parrish blinked.  They were serious about this.  They were actually trying to sell him on hybrid, supernatural creatures.  “I burned my hand on my toaster yesterday,” he said blankly.  “I’m pretty sure I’m not even passing for a well put-together human.”

Stiles grinned a little at that.  “Lydia didn’t know she was a banshee until a few months ago.”  He gestured between himself and Lydia and said, exaggerating some of the vowels, “No one’s judging over here.”  Proving the exact opposite.

Parrish perked an eyebrow.  “So I’m probably a banshee?” he gathered.  That seemed to be where this was going.

Apparently not though, because Stiles shared a confused look with Lydia and then asked, “Do you find yourself spending an inordinate amount of time with dead bodies?”  Parrish just glared and Stiles’ eyes widened in comprehension.  “Right,” he said quickly, embarrassed and clarifying, “Do you find them before your deputy friends can, almost like you’re a divining rod for the least interesting guys and gals in our fair county?”

Parrish wasn’t sure if he was joking or not.  “No,” he said.

Stiles halfheartedly consulted with Lydia again and nodded once.  “Then probably not a banshee.”

“So what am I then?”

That seemed to trip Stiles up, until he settled on the not-answer: “Supernaturally significant.”  He grinned, making his eyes go all squinty, and gave him a thumbs up.  “Well done, you.”

It inspired the stupidest grin in return and Parrish couldn’t seem to bite down on it however much he tried.  “I find myself liking you less and less as time goes on,” he said, but he still hadn’t been able to stop grinning.

Stiles snorted and said, “I have that effect on people.”

Parrish opened his mouth only to be called away by Romero with more information on Fain.  He excused himself from the two of them and vaguely noticed Lydia’s mom coming into the station to pick her up, after what felt like hours later.  He didn’t think about her or Stiles again in the whirlwind of new evidence until he overheard his name coming from Stiles’ mouth.  “I’ll catch a ride with Parrish.”

He checked the time on his computer.  He should’ve been off nearly a half hour ago.  He found himself leaning into the sheriff’s office, chastising without chastising, “Nice of you to give Parrish input on that.”

The sheriff gave him a look, halfway out his side door with Agent McCall and Parrish nodded his agreement.

Stiles grinned at him, exaggeratedly batting his eyelashes.  “Oh like you would turn me down.”  He scoffed.  “I have sad, helpless human eyes and you’re a big bad supernatural beast with a heart that’s been crocheted out of rainbows and dandelion seeds.”  Parrish snorted at that particular imagery, breaking out into a choking laugh when Stiles called out with a sprightly wave to Romero, “Bye, Officer Marcello.”

Parrish ushered him out quickly, before Carl could retort, hand on the small of Stiles’ back.

Stiles got into his car without complaint and barely waited until they’d pulled out of the parking lot to ask, “Any Matilda-ish stuff happening with you?”

Parrish blinked, shot a quick look over at him.  “Telekinesis?  Is that real?”  He didn’t wait for Stiles to answer before deciding, “I could get on board with that.”

Stiles chortled and asked with a derisive snort, “Oh yeah, what would you do with that?  Put your paperwork on my dad’s desk  _faster_?  No, you probably enjoy the little walk from your desk to his office.  People who look like you are always saying crap about healthy habits and endorphins.”  He sized Parrish up and said, “You’d save kittens from trees, for sure.  You’re  _that_  guy, a total freaking boy scout.”

Parrish shrugged, far from insulted, and pointed out, “So are you.  You just aren’t as obvious about it.”

Stiles swallowed, going quiet, going still, and Parrish wasn’t sure what he’d said but it’d clearly resonated with Stiles – for good or for ill.  It was massively discomfiting for him, to see Stiles as anything other than boundless energy trapped in human skin.  He wasn’t even tapping a finger on his knee.  Parrish was still unnerved when he pulled into Stiles’ driveway for the second time in recent memory and turned off his car.

Stiles furrowed his brow, questioning, but Parrish ignored it.  There was no way in hell he wasn’t walking Stiles inside now, not with him acting so off.  Stiles opened his front door at the same time that a loud  _snapping_  sound came from inside the house.

“Did you hear—”

“Get behind me, Stiles,” Parrish ordered as he shoved Stiles back, gun drawn, and took a step inside.  It sounded like it had come from the kitchen and Parrish took cautious steps, Stiles mirroring them a beat behind, drawing closer.

“Parrish—” Stiles started behind him.

Parrish shook his head, holding a finger up to his lips, and rolled off his shoulder from the wall next to the kitchen to round the door frame.  He didn’t see any immediate threat and he swung the span of his arms, gun clasped tightly, to sweep the room.  He couldn’t see anything.  He was just about to relax his shoulders when a loud  _snap_  tightened them further.  He whirled around at the same that Stiles started to laugh.

When he saw what it was, he couldn’t help a few of his own.  The kitchen window was open an inch or so and the wind was blowing at the wood shutter, snapping it back into the frame around the pane.

“Oh my God,” Stiles wheezed, “my heart was in my fucking throat.”

Parrish holstered his gun and rubbed at his forehead.  “That was legitimately terrifying,” he admitted, stalking over to close the window with an angry yank.  He scowled at the thing.  “Your kitchen shutter is  _mocking_  us.”

Stiles was leaning up against the wall and he said breathily, “I don’t think you’re supposed to own up to the terror, wearing the badge and all.”

Parrish shook his head.  That was a common misconception.  He held up a single finger.  “No, I’m supposed to go in  _despite_  the terror.  Which I did, if you’ll remember.”

Stiles’ lips lifted in a half-smile.  “Thanks for that, by the way.”  He was winded and clutching his chest and looking at Parrish like he was the epitome of bravery.

So Parrish found himself saying, only slightly tongue-tied, “Jordan.”  He grinned, feeling a tad daring.  “Or whatever first name you want to try out.”  He shrugged, admitting, “Though I am partial to Jordan, been dealing with it for over two decades now, it’s gotten a bit ingrained.”

Stiles’ lips widened and he agreed, “I’ll think about it.”

His gaze was warm, dancing with the beginnings of promise and Parrish realized he was leaning into him even though they were nowhere near each other’s orbit.  He straightened up with a jerk and cleared his throat.  “Uh.  I should go.”

Stiles straightened up too, blinked, like he was reorienting himself with reality.  “Yeah, yes, I’ll, uh, I’ll see you around?  If you do anything fancy or exceptional—”

Parrish smiled.  “I’ll let you know,” he promised.  He stopped on his way past Stiles, licked his lower lip.  “Goodnight, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyes looked golden in the light coming in from the kitchen window.  “Goodnight, Deputy Jordan.”  Because he had to be contrary, all the time.  It really should not be endearing.

* * *

It was closing in on two in the morning but Stiles had said he wanted to know so—“Stiles?”

Stiles’ voice was sleep-scratchy when he answered back across the connection, guessing, “Parrish?”

“I did something,” Parrish said urgently, too impatient to wait for Stiles to shake it off.

“You did what-something?”  Stiles groaned.

“A thing,” Parrish explained, badly.  He let out a loud breath through his nose.  “A fancy, exceptional thing.  A not-human thing.”

“Oh,” Stiles said blankly and then: “Oh!  Holy crap, you did a thing.”  He sounded much more eager now, awake and with it.  “What was it, what did you do?”

“I have no idea,” Parrish answered primly.

There was a lingering pause on Stiles’ end.  “Um.  What?”

“Yeah,” Parrish said quickly, adrenaline making his voice go odd and uneven.  “I don’t remember doing it but who else could have done it, right?”  He snorted a little.  “I live alone and I’m pretty sure I would have noticed it so it must have been me.”

“This is making so little sense,” Stiles told him, whining slightly.  “No, zero sense.  None sense.  Potentially negative sense.”

“You know where the Birchwood apartment complex is, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said uneasily, as though he was expecting a trap.

“I live in two-twelve.”  Because Stiles wouldn’t believe it until he saw it.  Parrish was looking right  _at it_  and he hardly believed it.

“All right, I’ll be over in a minute,” there was a pause on Stiles’ end and then he was saying darkly, “but if this is some plot to get me there so you can dine on my insides or something equally villainous?  I’m going to be really disappointed.”

Parrish rolled his eyes.  “Stiles, just get here already.”

It took eleven minutes for Stiles to knock on his door.  Parrish grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him through the apartment to stand in his bathroom door.

“Whoa,” Stiles breathed out.

“Right?” Parrish said giddily.

“ _Whoa_ ,” Stiles reiterated.

“I  _know_ ,” Parrish answered.

Stiles mimed it with his hands, like he was breaking a Kit Kat in two.  His mouth yo-yoed before he finally managed to make his slack lips form the words, “There’s a—your bathtub is in two pieces.”  His head whipped around, cheeks tinting, and he accused, squinting, “You don’t remember doing that?”

Parrish shook his head.  “Definitely not.”  He gestured towards his dead bathtub, which was split neatly in two.  Length-wise.  “The spigot did leak and the ceramic wasn’t exactly as white as it should’ve been when I moved in,” he admitted, “but this still seems like a rather extreme reaction.”

“Uh huh,” Stiles agreed, swallowing convulsively.  He screwed up his face and purposefully didn’t open his eyes as he said, “Here’s the thing.”  Parrish blinked at him, curious, and Stiles waved a hand in his general direction – still not opening his eyes.  “I’m trying not to notice how you’re not dressed and focus on the broken-in-half slab of ceramic tile in your bathroom but I’m seventeen and  _you’re not dressed_.”

Parrish started a little and looked down at where one hand was wrapped around Stiles’ wrist and the other was clutching his towel around his waist.  He blinked.  “Oh, um.  Right.  Yeah.”  He pulled his hand away from Stiles to point towards the broken bathtub.  “I was planning a shower and then—” he looked down at himself, “right.”  He awkwardly side-stepped off into his bedroom and buried himself in his closet as he pulled on jeans and a t-shirt.  He walked back out with a self-conscious, “Better?”

Stiles offered him more of a grimace than a smile but said, “Blood rushing back to my brain now, thanks.”

Parrish rocked forward on the balls of his feet, pursing his lips.  “So,” he drew out the word, stopped.  “Was it the fact that you’re seventeen and I’m  _naked_  or was it the fact that you’re seventeen and  _I’m_  naked?”  He shouldn’t want to know, really.  It shouldn’t matter, only somehow Stiles had always kind of…  _stuck_.  And he was a teenager that also wasn’t because whatever the hell had had him missing all those months ago had also aged him prematurely and he was wry, and loyal, and a mess of contradiction.  He went around looking like an open book but he was bound in dry ice and written in obscure hieroglyphics and Parrish had no idea how but he was completely certain that Stiles was worth all the effort.

Stiles swallowed uneasily, not quite meeting Parrish’s eye.  “I feel like we’re pawning off a lot of responsibility on emphasis here, and that’s a lot to carry on the shoulders of a few stressed consonants and vowels.”  Which wasn’t an answer and he seemed to realize Parrish was still waiting for one because he went on a bit defensively.  “Okay, I see your question and I raise you a question.  Would it make a difference or are we just looking for ways to humiliate the desperate teenager over here?”

But Stiles didn’t wait for the answer.  Because he tumbled headlong into things, threw himself into everything full-bodied because he didn’t know how to do it any other way.  He simply wanted Parrish to know that  _he_  was aware of the options on the table before he chose the more reckless one.

“The fact that it was you might have come into play a little there,” he said finally, clenching his hands in the pockets of his jeans.  “Some, slightly,” he hedged before laughing softly at himself, “and this is exceptionally awkward because now I’m not competing  _for_ Lydia but  _against_  her and that’s not really a fight you win, ever, you—”

And Parrish was really done with that whole line of thought.  “I was never wooing  _Lydia_.”  He’d meant to put the emphasis on ‘never’ but emphasis had kind of run away with him tonight it seemed.  He would’ve said he hadn’t been making a play for Stiles, getting to know him – sure, but not trying to woo him.  Apparently, though, he’d enjoyed watching Stiles’ lips tug into reluctant, brilliant, indulgent, beaming smiles more than he realized.

They were doing it now, curving into a warm smile that looked like it would be heaven to sink into.  “Did I mention that I like you?” Stiles asked, cheery and cheeks blushing red.

Parrish took a step closer, pretended to be thinking hard.  “I think there was something about keeping me in there, too.”

Stiles made a low, happy sound in the back of his throat and tipped forward.  “I think I might be standing by that.”

“Good,” Parrish decided in an undertone, moving into Stiles’ body and feeling arms come up to wrap around his neck.  They’d take this slow, toe the line because he wasn’t one to take advantage, but slow didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the feeling of Stiles pressed up against him, of a mouth brushing his own.  He murmured against Stiles’ lips, lightly dragging against them with his own, building up his own anticipation so much that his skin was pebbling up, “I’d definitely break your tub if you didn’t.  I’m obviously a werelion who’s confused and infuriated by modern bathroom appliances.”

Stiles let out a gut-punch of a laugh into his mouth and murmured back, “Oh yeah, I  _definitely_  like you.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://wellhalesbells.tumblr.com/). Where I can and will enable _the shit_ out of you.


End file.
